


Gemini

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Blood Drinking, Demon Tom Riddle, Demon Voldemort, Like twilight but less "i know what u are" "say it. OUT LOUD" & more "GUYS DINNER" -cowbell jingles-, M/M, Summoner AU, Summoner Harry, Threesome - M/M/M, does this count as a shitpost now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Desperate and mourning, Harry takes drastic measures to ensure his own survival. He strikes a deal with two of the most powerful demons to ever walk the seven Planes: Misery and Agony. In exchange for his magic-rich blood, Harry demands their absolute protection…But to two beings older than time itself, one must never speak in absolutes.





	Gemini

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selofain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selofain/gifts).

> I wrote this thing in March of 2017, said I'd make it a bigger thing later, and never got around to it. Recently found it in my docs, shrugged and said 'hey, actually this isn't half bad.' Funny how a bit of time (ok, a lot of time) changes your perception of things. Would I write it differently now? Who knows.
> 
> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://selofain.tumblr.com/post/150675069538/the-harrytomvoldemort-tag-on-ao3-is-such-a) that felt enough of a call out and an inspiration at the time I felt obligated to try and do something about it.

There is blood on his hands. There is blood on his robes. There is blood on his cheek and glasses and fingernails and shoes and…

Some of it is drying—caked on and crusty, red and disgusting. He doesn’t know why he became a summoner’s apprentice when he can’t stand the sight of blood; it makes him queasy, makes his gut clench and his hands quiver. Somehow, he manages—that’s what Severus kept telling him, kept telling him even as he lied choking on his own blood in the ritual room—and still, Harry manages.

The blood that isn’t dried is from a bucket off to the side. He doesn’t want to think about how he got it, straight from his master’s dead body with his dead eyes still open and the wound in his chest still bleeding out, but he’s done it well enough; yes, just as Severus taught him—well enough, good enough, he can. Even if Severus isn’t here anymore, he can.

Miraculously—and isn’t that funny, because there have been no miracles today—his shaking hands had stilled dipped in the blood of his master. They were still as he drew upon the grimy floor, steady as he wrote the proper inscriptions for the summoning ritual, and calmer still as he wiped them on his robes. Clean, Harry thinks, he’ll never be clean again. Severus’ blood has been on his hands and face and clothes—not even an apocalypse would be enough to make him forget the feeling.

Severus is gone, and Harry remains. That was enough for his master. He’ll learn to make it enough for himself, too—but now, now—

The pentacle is perfect, more perfect than he’s ever drawn, ink or chalk. He’s never worked with blood before, but he’s learned enough. His master told him blood was reserved for the most powerful rituals, the most dangerous of them all—he taught him safety and caution and tricks of the trade. If the blood was powerful enough, if it was strong enough, it would protect. Harry knows its strong enough. He knows from experience that this blood is strong enough.

“I want,” he speaks, licking his cracked lips and tasting iron and rust, “I want protection. Absolute protection.”

The two shadows standing in his pentacle seem to waver. They have no definite form or construction, simply two masses of power with no color or hue. That is proof that the blood is worthy, that he’s done everything correctly—they cannot leave the pentacle, and any shapes they take that may do him harm will not hold. They only struggle for a moment; experience tells them how it is. Struggle is futile. They either give in to his demands, or they cannot leave.

_Boy, do you know who you’ve summoned?_

Harry does not move. There has been enough death and sacrifice for today. If there needs to be one more, by Circe let it be him. He has used the fresh blood of his dead master: his dead master who died to let him live. And he has survived, but only just—only just him, only just barely. The foreign blood that armors his body arms his heart.

“I want absolute protection,” he repeats.

_We are not beings of protection. Seek another._

“I. want. _absolute_. protection,” Harry says again, enunciating each word. He knows how it will go; they will try to trick him. They will act as if they have power, as if they can kill him if he breathes a beat too quick. But the pentacle holds strong and the blood is true; all he has to do is trust in his master, and that will reveal the truth.

“Deal?” he asks, as hoarse as a year without rain. “Or no deal?”

The two shadows vibrate in unconcealed anger. They flurry like feathers to the wind, reaching and pushing to fill in all the cracks, coming up with nothing. The ritual is flawless. Harry refuses to be shaken.

_“Deal,”_ says one.

Harry waits. The short beat of silence drags on for what feels like hours. His fingers feel uncomfortable and bloated, blood trapped in the edges and ridges and all beneath his nails. He’ll need to pick at them for a solid week before he gets rid of it all—or maybe he’ll have to rip them off, wash away the mixture of dry and new blood to erase it. The stains will never leave his memory.

The silence ends with a sigh.

_What is your offer?_

“My blood,” Harry says. “For as long as I am alive and as long as you protect me, you may have it. For as long as our contract holds, my blood is yours to take as you like.”

Then he takes a knife from his pocket and presses it to his thumb, just enough for a small bead of red to peek out from beneath his skin. The demons need no other sample; the smell alone is enough to excite them. His master once told him to guard his blood jealously—Severus must be rolling in his grave to see him offer it so freely now.

Harry doesn’t care about his blood. He never knew his parents, never knew why his bloodline was the precious jewel of the seven Planes, and he quite frankly doesn’t care. But his master died for this blood, this body of his, and if Harry is going to commit the sin of living, then he’ll do it at whatever the cost. It is an expensive one, but the payment is well worth the price.

_“Deal,”_ the two demons purr in unison.

Still, Harry waits. “Do we have a deal, or don’t we?”

_Clever little thing, aren’t you? Very well. We have an accord. Write your contract._

The runes written in blood on the floor glows. One by one, they peel away and drift upward like lazy soap bubbles rising through the air. Eventually, they come to rest in front of him. Harry removes his glasses with one hand, and presses the other to the left half of his face. The runes still, and he chants the secret pages of his soul.

Before the last syllable even finishes leaving his lips, the runes are already changing. They shift and morph and drag and flatten, creating an array of changing words and letters. Eventually the speed at which they alter peaks. Harry knows what is to come, so he refuses to blink.

The words funnel straight toward the covered half of his face. They burn as they touch his skin, phasing straight through his hand to stitch into his cheek and jaw and chin—up to his brow, up further, lightning-charged, to his forehead and just barely skimming his hairline. It’s like a wildfire has jumped an electric wire and a needle has used that wire as thread: a surgical stitch made deft and long, with no defined direction as his face slid into the path of a sewing machine.

Harry lowers his hand. The chaotic map of a lightning bolt is an angry red emblazoned on the left half of his face. The contract is complete.

“Come, Misery; come, Agony,” he rasps, ignoring the sharp shocks of pain at every move of his mouth. “Under our contract, I christen you…”

The two forms shift. Within the confines of the pentacle, the shape of two men grow distinguished. One is devilishly handsome, with a face chiseled into the dreams of a mortal man’s insufficient talent, while the other is barely human at all: an amalgamation of serpent and scale, made masculine only by the structure of bone a frame beneath his reptilian flesh.

He names the former Tom, after a bartender with the friendliest face in the world. The latter, he calls Voldemort, a name he once heard from a bedtime story.

* * *

“Thank you,” Harry says, nodding to the cashier as he fetches his bags. The cashier doesn’t see him; she’s already greeting the next customer. Harry doesn’t mind. He leaves the store laden with two filled bags, exiting through the automatic sliding doors.

It’s already dark outside—the best and worst time of day. Despite being on his guard, he feels comfortable at night. Severus wasn’t a morning person. He worked well into the night and only checked the time when the birds began to sing. Harry had grown accustomed to that work schedule. The boundary between the Planes are weakest at dusk and dawn, his master had told him. Summoning hour. Not witching hour; summoning hour.

Harry keeps his head low as he walks. He can feel eyes lingering on him, sliding along the slope of his shoulders and his too-thin torso. They flicker to his items, prizes for thieves of circumstance and desolation. It’s unfortunate that he’s in a similar situation—not as bad; there’s always worse, but similar.

Those with a view of his face falter. The mark of the summoning contract is no longer a bloody red but the white of a healed scar—he knows it makes him look dangerous. A scar like his is as good as a tattoo; it’s too precise to have been made by accident, and it causes the more cautious predators to be confused. Harry is too slim to be a fighter, too young to be someone important…and yet.

There are exceptions. There’s a man eyeing him from an alleyway on his side of the street. He thinks he’s well-hidden; it’s night and he’s tucked into the shadows as good as a newborn in a crib. Harry’s glasses are further evidence that he’s as blind as a bat. The man thinks he’s found the perfect prey. He slides a knife out of his pocket and caresses it like an old friend, his old trustworthy partner.

An owl would not have found a better mouse, Harry muses. Unfortunately, there is a much, much bigger bird of prey eyeing him.

It happens when he’s a couple meters away from the alleyway. The man slumps against the wall, his grip loosens and his knife clatters against the concrete. His eyes are the lifeless marbles of a rag doll. All he can do is stare at his feet, remembering. Harry passes by unharmed. The man doesn’t even notice him; he’s too busy curling into a ball, defeated by his own mind.

Perhaps he will die there, Harry thinks. It is either the worst death or the kindest death, the most pitiful or the most enviable. Seven billion people, and how many of them wish for a quiet death? To die within the mind, without pain or torture—that is a beautiful thing, he thinks. It is a far more beautiful thing than to die covered in blood, wheezing out a final wish or prayer.

Death by depression. If he cannot escape his own mind, he will never walk again. There are no kind strangers in this part of town; no one will feed him a piece of bread as his stomach cries out. No one will shake him awake or offer him shelter during the coldest night of the week. No one will offer him a hand or a tissue, and perhaps no one will care even if he dies.

Harry wonders if he will care, if there is enough of his heart left to care. He’s always been the sort to either dive in head-first or not at all; is he still capable of compassion, or did that part of him die over the years, whittled down to nothing by erosion and repeated offense? If his master was still alive, if he’d still been that clumsy apprentice, maybe he would have turned around…

In the end, maybe that man is just another tick to his kill count. Harry will only know when he’s dead.

There is another man who has fallen into step some ways behind him, roughly a block apart. He walks just a little faster than Harry’s patient crawl, so it is inevitable that he’ll catch up. His plans are a little more malicious than the mugger’s; for one, the weapon in his coat is a gun, though he carries a knife in his pocket as well.

They are well-used weapons. Harry had seen his last victim on the news in the grocery store’s TV—a seventeen-year-old girl, beaten and raped. She only lived to tell the tale because the sound of sirens had scared her assaulter off.

He turns the corner. The man will soon be half a block behind; perhaps he’ll speed up even further. Harry can practically taste his impatience. The man is frustrated he hadn’t been able to finish with his previous victim. He plans on doing worse to Harry this time, much worse.

Harry sighs. Behind him, he hears the man’s bloodcurdling scream. It has the added effect of scaring off his other watchers, so the rest of the walk home is equally uneventful. He doesn’t know if his two would-be assaulters have died, will die, or live the affair, but the knowledge is uninteresting to him now. Once, he would’ve asked—out of morbid curiosity, out of regret, shame, guilt… Now, no longer.

“I’m absolutely famished,” Tom purrs, leaning up against the wall as Harry enters his apartment. The homeless that had littered the stairs know better than to mess with him by now; his other neighbors could care less when they’ve got their own business to worry about.

“At least wait until I’ve put away the groceries, please?” Harry asks. He doesn’t even bother looking at the demon as he tugs off his shoes and makes his way in, careful so he doesn’t stub any toes. The apartment is dark for financial purposes rather than environmentally-friendly consideration. Besides, all three of the residents prefer the darkness. The light switch might as well have not existed at all.

The few perishables he bought go straight into the refrigerator. Most of it goes in a bag; a few are put in the pantry. He doesn’t know when he’ll be forced to leave this place with no notice. He’d rather have a decent amount of food on the streets than leave it all behind, rotting for the next renter.

The moment he’s put away the last item, Tom materializes behind him, cold human hands sliding beneath his shirt to pull him back against him. Harry goes without resistance; whether he wants to or not doesn’t matter, and has never mattered. The lightning bolt on his face makes it hard to forget.

“All safe and sound,” Tom murmurs into his ear. “You know we wouldn’t let those dirty hands touch you…”

“Have you washed yours?” Harry asks, letting his head fall back against the demon’s chest.

“But of course. Only barbarians don’t wash their hands before they eat,” replies Tom. And then he takes the first bite.

‘Bite,’ of course, is relative. Tom mouths his way up the side of his neck, all hot breath and no tongue. He taunts what is to come, tugging a small pinch of flesh between his teeth and putting enough pressure on it just so Harry can feel it. It’s not quite enough to draw blood yet, but that’s an easy thing; just a little more, and…

Tom squeezes his hip. “Patience,” he whispers, and nips Harry’s jaw when he feels him tense.

“Says the hungry demon,” Harry retorts.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ll have my meal soon enough.”

“Better hurry then, before there’re any—_oh_—interruptions…”

Tom laughs, low and dark. “If that is what my master commands—” Harry gasps, “—who am I to deny him?”

This time, Tom does bite down. It stings for a moment, but soon enough Harry is arching, stretching his neck, doing whatever he can to try and get him to bite down again. Tom hums, sucking just shy of the perfect pressure in a way he knows infuriates him before nipping his way down to his shoulder blade. The cloth of Harry’s shirt is the most frustrating obstacle ever—to Harry, at least—but Tom is a rather experienced diner by now. He deigns to ignore it and travel back up.

Harry feels a wet tongue slide against the shell of his ear. It’s so close to his sensitive scalp that he tenses, sucking in a deep breath of his own when Tom bites down and draws blood. First, teasing, he laps the bead of red away—not enough; Harry knows how it feels like to be drained and Tom _isn’t doing it_—and then he presses a wet kiss to the spot, as if to say ‘_here, an apology; feel better, darling?’_

Which, no, he isn’t, actually. Harry tugs at Tom’s sleeve—not enough, definitely not enough—but the demon, in true demonic fashion, holds firm. He takes his time traversing the side of Harry’s neck again, and then the back—kissing the exact spot at the edge of his hairline that Harry wishes he would bite—while his hands travel down to rub at the waistband of his pants.

“Tom, I swear to God—”

Tom’s hands dip down further. “Relax, lovely. I really am famished, you know,” he says, and then bites down hard on his shoulder.

Harry moans, loud and needy. The suction of Tom’s mouth as he feasts is just not fair. It feels as good as a hand between his legs, pressing hard just where he needs it, and Harry can feel the way his legs give up and just lets himself slump against Tom. It’s no surprise that he’s hard as a rock, and his demon is perfectly willing to help take care of that for him.

Tom’s lips come up red and messy, but all he does is lick them clean before kissing his way back up to his neck. His hand is stroking rough and slow; the dragging rhythm has Harry completely helpless as he tries to push himself back, thrust into that hand, get Tom to _do something_ so he can feel him.

All that accursed demon does is _hums_, low and lusty and mocking. He pushes Harry forward, bending them both over the counter top, and finally, _finally_ thrusts his own hips forward, rutting like an animal in heat, as he bites down and sucks hard.

The feeding goes rather quickly after that.

Harry, spent and satisfied, keens helplessly when Tom pulls away. The demon doesn’t go too far; his tongue laps at the multiple bite wounds that will no doubt turn into angry bruises later. Not to say they won’t heal faster than usual…if he wants them to.

“Finally finished?” a voice unlike either of theirs asks.

Harry isn’t even embarrassed; Voldemort’s made him come fully dressed just as many times as Tom. He wonders why the two don’t just feed from him in the shower; it would certainly save a couple laundry trips, that’s for sure.

Tom is equally unabashed at the evidence of his own pleasure. “Did you want a round, too?” he asks, voice rough.

“Later. You clearly dined well,” drawls Voldemort. He sends his fellow demon a significant look as he strolls into the kitchen.

Tom’s grin is all teeth and smug. “What gave it away?”

“B-behave,” Harry mumbles. “Y’ gotta share… S’not fair otherwise.”

Voldemort pulls him away from Tom and against him instead. Harry shivers at the touch of stimulation; where previously it was not enough, now it’s too much. He still wraps his arms around the demon’s neck as best as he can.

“Perhaps a rest before dinner.”

Harry swallows. “Yours or mine?”

“Both, if you’re feeling well.”

The last part is said without compassion, Harry knows. It is part of the contract: absolute protection. The feeding does not hurt because they cannot allow him to be hurt; they cannot drink if they risk his health. He is the contract holder, so his half takes priority.

Harry presses more firmly against him. “Both,” he promises. He doesn’t like favoring one above the other. They come as a pair, even though there are occasions when neither seem to share well.

Voldemort inclines his head, and then smoothly picks him up to carry him to bed. It’s a tiny insufficient cot, and he knows he’ll definitely be unhappy with his decision to sleep in his own come, but it seems like a pretty good idea right now.

He can hear the sound of Tom shifting into something with wings.

“Be safe,” Harry calls out.

“He won’t be long,” Voldemort murmurs. “It will be a short check around the area.”

“Anythin’ wrong?”

“Not yet,” says the demon. Harry inwardly agrees—not yet, but it will.

“Wake me for dinner, please?” Harry asks, tugging on Voldemort’s sleeve.

Amused, the demon asks, “Mine, or yours?”

Harry, sleep-stained and unrepentant, closes his eyes. “Both,” he mumbles. A hand tangles in his hair, and he thinks that’s just fine.

It seems like only a few minutes after he closes his eyes, he’s opening them again. Harry blinks, trying to take in the darkness of the room while also ridding his eyes of that crusty, not-enough-sleep but woke-up-anyway feeling. There’s the softened hum of the refrigerator rumbling in the background, the shuffling and thumping of the apartment next door, and a heavy weight pressing down onto him.

“Din’ner?” Harry mumbles, twisting his head only to bump right into a snake’s snout. The large anaconda flicks its tongue out at him. Harry sniffs. “Hey…tickles.”

The form above him shifts, and the weight—though it doesn’t lessen per se—is redistributed to go along with the new naked limbs entrapping him.

“Dinner,” Voldemort affirms quietly.

Harry wriggles his arm free and lifts it a little too quick. It smacks into his cheek, but he still turns his wrist toward the demon as an offering despite his own grumbling. Voldemort takes it in his spindly, bone-thin hands; the caress of a feather would’ve had more force than his grip.

“Tom back yet?” Harry asks, eyes drifting back closed.

“No.”

“Oh… Well, go on then,” he mumbles. Already he can imagine how wonderful falling back to sleep after ‘dinner’ will be. Perhaps he can sleep through the feeding—they’ve done that a few times, too—and they can wake him next when it’s _his_ turn to eat.

Voldemort’s gossamer touch suddenly tightens to a vice grip clamp, startling Harry back awake.

“Something wro—” Harry pauses. The bright red of the demon’s eyes are the only source of light in the dark, and yet that light might as well be darker than the darkness that surrounds them. Eerie—positively demonic, yes. Shadows would’ve cowered from that light. Voldemort is _very_ hungry.

Harry gulps. “You didn’t eat much last time,” he murmurs, as if struck by an epiphany. “Said you weren’t hungry…”

“I did insist,” Voldemort replies, heated breath fanning across Harry’s comparatively human skin.

“O—oh—”

The abrupt sound of ripping cloth overwhelms the refrigerator’s artificial buzz.

“Indulge me.”

“Tom better be getting me a five-course dinner,” Harry breathes.

Voldemort’s lipless mouth twists in the night. Perhaps his scales could’ve been pearls with how deceptively pure they looked, versus the wickedness of his smirk. “Fair is fair. We’ll both be getting one tonight.”

“I-I can—” he doesn’t get to finish, interrupted by his own gasp. The first bite is on his wrist, so close to his pulse point…

“Yes?” Voldemort drawls, licking a long stripe across his wound.

“I c-can be d-down f—or th-tha—t—!”

“Still asleep?” the demon apathetically inquires.

Slightly affronted, Harry tries to pull off a, “I wish I was,” but instead it comes out as a weak, dragging moan. Much like Tom, Voldemort doesn’t play fair, he thinks rather belatedly with the sloppy suck of a demon’s mouth against his collarbone.

“IfIcan’tworktomorrow_youtotallyoweme!_”

“Relax, child.”

“_Ha_—Don’tcallmea_child_whenyou’redoingthat!”

Voldemort presses the points of his sharp teeth right against the jugular. Harry’ feels his own pulse quicken—he wonders if he gulps, if it’ll be enough to break skin or not. A cold hand slides down his side beneath his shirt, memorizing the skin there from his ribs to his waist to the jut of his hips, and then—

“Tom is the one who owes _me_,” the demon mutters. “If you have any complaints, take it up with him.”

“I-I’ll remember that,” Harry breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really in love with the idea of disgruntled summoner Harry and his two bloodthirsty demons. hrrrnghh.
> 
> .........but then you know [THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdHExJzvSoU) stupid song was playing in my head the entire time and if you guess what it is before clicking on the link to check, perhaps you too were made to giggle.


End file.
